


Hands Unclean

by uumuu



Series: Fëanorians beyond the First Age (AUs) [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Disturbing Fluff, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Murder Husbands, Sibling Incest, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: After the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor look after each other.





	Hands Unclean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



> Many many thanks to my beta (for the beta _and_ the inspiration!)

The pot bubbled cheerfully on the hearth, and Maedhros hummed along with it while he finished carving Maglor's new tungana. Birds peeked in from the the glass-less windows, many tarrying without fear: they probably viewed that lonely house far up in the hills – a small hut which had held fast, while forests plunged into the sea and mountains crumbled all around it – as their own too. Maedhros often glanced at them, and the birds chirped back at him. 

“I'm not the one who sings,” he told them, but the birds didn't leave, and his humming took on the shape of an old melody, one Curufin, Maglor and their father had played together on much larger instruments than the one he was making. The birds listened, and the first butterflies of the year fluttered into the hut on the trail of the melody, alighting noiselessly wherever they pleased.

The morning grew steadily brighter, beams of light overlapping like lazy brush strokes, until Maedhros set the chisel down. His humming ceased, and he looked his carving over, from the curved pegbox shaped into a fox's head down the eight-petalled flower right before the body of the instrument widened to a perfect circle, closely inspecting the fruit of the skills he had never made use of in Valinor, because there had always been someone else to make things in his stead, and better than he did.

“Nelyo?” Maglor called groggily from the bed.

Maedhros immediately stood up, setting the unfinished instrument down on the stool where he had been sitting. He reached for the kettle, half-buried in the cinders to the side of the pot, and poured its contents in a chipped cup. 

“Good morning, brother,” he said, sitting next to Maglor on the bed and handing him the cup.

Maglor accepted it with a drowsy groan and drank the warm tea made from the tender wild rose buds they had gathered three weeks earlier, at the cusp of spring. 

Maedhros sank a hand in his hair, the curls woven together in an impossible tangle, with bits of leaves and tiny twigs caught in it like insects on a spider web. “Everything went well?” he asked, while Maglor put the cup on the floor. 

“Yes...I took care of them.”

Maedhros smiled, a broad smile full of love and gratitude, and lifted Maglor's hands to his lips, the hands which provided for him when he couldn't look after himself, hands which worshipped him and ensured that anything which threatened to disturb his peace would be destroyed. He kissed them, their smooth backs and the long shapely fingers and the soft palms. Maglor's hands were still unscarred, unblemished: Maglor rarely went without gloves. Maedhros pressed and dragged his lips over every last inch of them, each caress a token of requited worship. 

“You took a while,” he said, between a kiss and the next, while a butterfly wandered into the very corner of the hut where the bed was huddled with its blankets made of scraps of age-old fabrics.

“I had to divert their trail west, so that people will look for them towards the sea, if anyone looks for them at all. A tragic thing, for inexperienced youths to go fall from one of the dangerous cliffs of broken Beleriand.”

“Very unfortunate indeed, but we can't let elves or humans into our forest.”

Maglor nodded: there was a boundary between them and the rest of the world, and it had to be preserved. “Such gratitude you show, making me wake up alone.”

“It's the middle of the morning. I did plenty of work for you, washed your clothes too. There was a little more blood on them than usual. I don't want our home to be besmirched with it.”

Maglor freed his left hand and grasped the wrist of Maedhros' right hand, one of two Curufin had made for him more than seven hundreds years before. His fingers read the tiny inscriptions which ran all around the silvery surface to where it joined Maedhros' arm just below the elbow. He knew the words by heart, fastening spells and spells of motion which complemented the perfect anatomic replica of an elven hand, the structure of which Curufin had discerned by dissecting the corpses of their fallen comrades. 

“Take me,” Maglor said, bringing the hand down to his chest, naked as the rest of him after Maedhros had undressed him in his sleep. 

“The stew is almost done.”

“I won't mind if it's a little overcooked.”

Maedhros laughed softly, curling his fingers against Maglor's chest. Learning to use the hand had been a matter of patience and perseverance, of days spent reciting the spells until they were ingrained in his mind and in his body. Regaining sensation had required sheer willpower, and Curufin had not been there to congratulate him when he finally managed to do it. Perceiving the cold of the twin's dead faces had not been something to rejoice over, at any rate. Now he was rewarded with the smoothness of Maglor's skin, its warmth, the echo of his heartbeat. He slid his hand down Maglor's chest to the curve of his hip and bent to retrieve the small glass phial they kept under the bed. Maglor flung the bedcovers away from himself, parting his legs wide for him to settle between them. 

The first touch of Maedhros's cold fingers on Maglor's ass made Maglor hiss out loud while his body arched and tensed for a sweet shuddering moment, as it did every time Maedhros used his mechanical hand to prepare him. Maglor shivered again while Maedhros eased them in as far as they would go. Maedhros bent forward to press his mouth to his brother's, claiming it with his tongue, and started moving his fingers inside him. Maglor's walls pulsated tightly around them, still unused to the cold. Maedhros bent his fingers and turned them, feeling his brother's passage, smearing it with the oil, relishing Maglor's reactions, the moans and mewls that were caught in his mouth, the way Maglor's fully erect cock tickled his hip and left flecks of wetness on his shirt, the tiny spasms that trapped his fingers for an instant. Then Maglor pushed out, and his muscles opened up to him. 

Maedhros added a third finger, and Maglor freed his cock, held it in the palm of his hand and caressed to full hardness in turn, his hands working nimbly on his velvety skin.  
“Take me,” he moaned, poking the slit of Maedhros's cock with his thumb.

Maedhros slid his fingers out of Maglor's ass and trailed them up over his taut balls and dripping hard cock, up over his navel, flicked his nipples and let them creep up over his chin to his mouth. Maglor licked them without hesitation while Maedhros knelt back between his legs and lined himself with his waiting hole. 

Maglor's silken heat wrapped tightly around his cock when he breached him, skin-to-skin, their warmth mingling as they joined. Maedhros buried himself wholly and stayed there. Maglor wrapped his legs around him too, and laid his hands on his back, drawing him even closer.  
“Cáno,” Maedhros panted, pulling out and sheathing himself again. 

“Hannya...ilúvenya” Maglor panted back, pressing his fingers into Maedhros's skin.

Maedhros soon fell into his usual rhythm under the gentle pressure of Maglor's hands, the hands whose hold had erased his pain and dispelled the urge to give up his body and be joined with their dead brothers and father. His eyes fixed on the braid made with their hair, twined around the headboard – a vein of silver on rusty waves lost in sea of blackness. Curufin and Caranthir's hair was indistinguishable from their father's, which had survived in a thin braid preserved by Caranthir. Caranthir had never revealed to his brothers when or why he had obtained it, but that didn't matter. It only mattered that he had, and that it was there, next to the Silmarils, always tucked under their shared pillow when they were home, when they had sex, when Maglor throbbed around him and enveloped him and met each one of his thrusts with perfectly timed little jolts of his body.

Maedhros felt happy so happy happier than anyone else in the whole of Arda could be. 

“Me too, brother, me too,” Maglor whispered in his head, the touch of his mind a feverish haze of passion and adoration.

Maglor came first, his seed sticking to Maedhros's shirt while his body arched against Maedhros's. Maedhros followed him after a time, too lost in bliss to let it end too soon. Even after he had filled his brother with his seed he stayed inside him, slowly regaining his breath while Maglor caressed his back.

**Author's Note:**

> The tungana (or tungna) is an actual Nepalese instrument (chosen chiefly because the name goes with Quenya phonology, and "tunga" is an actual Quenya word which means "resonant" when applied to strings).
> 
> Hannya, ilúvenya = My Brother, my all/my universe.


End file.
